


﹏ឧcripted reassurances

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Family Dynamics, Gaslighting, Gen, Humor, Mental Health Issues, Narcissism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Martin can be patient when he needs to be. Most of Claremont is a drone, but when he gets Malcolm time, he psychs himself up in the mirror and tries to be the best father he can.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	﹏ឧcripted reassurances

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [WriterBot](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/624070) by WriterBot. 



> there is a discord bot called writerbot that can give lines to brighten your day with a !reassure command (part of a whole host of other sprint writing offerings it has). the pson whump server realized many of the lines sounded hilarious if read in martin’s voice. so that turned into me jokingly saying i'd write a fic where martin says all the lines. so every word of dialogue in italics martin says here is credit to the team behind writerbot (42 !reassure lines in total). everything else is me.
> 
> this is for all of my friends on the pson whump server. <3 you

“ _You are the most perfect you there is_ ,” Martin said, gazing in the mirror. He had a small allotment of bathroom time per day — he sure as hell was going to make the best of it looking at himself. “ _Everything will turn out okay in the end_.”

He could be patient when he needed to be. Twenty-two years in that room at Claremont, and he was certainly good at playing the long game. He could win at _any_ game. Just challenge him. Tilt toward losing — he had a knife for that. It was a little less sharp inside these walls, but no less deadly.

Some days were…meh. He really could do without them. But Claremont schedule dictated he get up, so when Mr. David prodded him, he did. Begrudgingly, dragging his clogged feet wherever he was led. His attire wouldn’t win any fashion awards, but his clothes were reminiscent enough of his hospital scrubs that they eventually felt like home.

Other days were _spectacular!_ He wanted to do all the things Mr. David would let into the room, and even more the guard put the kibosh on. Apparently basket weaving was too…sharp. Crochet and knitting too…blunt instrument that could poke an eye out. _Accidentally_. Who did they think he was, a common murderer?

Clay time, TV time, phone time, Malcolm time —

Malcolm!

His boy was coming today. He didn’t even need to wait very long.

He made it through the early morning reminding himself, “ _Don’t allow someone to make you feel you’re not good enough._ ” The guards, the aides, all the hospital staff — no one could knock him down. He was _The Surgeon_. World renowned. They were…not.

It was easy to deflect any words sent his way. Malcolm was coming for lunch. _Lunch!_

The hours flew by, and then his boy appeared in front of him. Morose, eyes at the floor, dark shadows eating him from the inside out to underneath his eyes. It wasn’t quite the visit he was expecting — shouldn’t he be happy to see his dad?

“Oh, Malcolm, _it's okay to feel down sometimes_ ,” Martin comforted in the most paternal tone he could muster. He had practiced it in front of the mirror several times. Was pretty good at it, too.

Malcolm hadn’t even made it to his table yet, halfway between the door and his chair. “This isn’t down,” he rebutted. “This is depression.”

“Son, _everybody has these moments_.” Like when they kept him from Mr. David. When they took away TV time, and phone time, and Malcolm time…

“You, of _all people_ , should know it’s a medical condition.” Touchy…touchy…

Maybe he hadn’t missed much failing to experience Malcolm’s teenage years at home. He sure was moody. “ _Relax, you're doing fine_.”

“I haven’t slept through the night in — “ Malcolm fidgeted with how many fingers to hold up. “ — five days!”

“ _You deserve a hug right now_.” He’d give him a never-ending one if the boy would ever allow it. But inside Claremont’s confines, it would lead to a quick trip to timeout, with a long stay until they would let him out.

Malcolm looked up at him, seemingly not interested in the offer. Came no closer to his chair, so Martin exited his, getting right up to the edge of the line that should not be crossed.

“ _Be kind and gentle with yourself. You are doing the best you can._ ” He attempted to comfort with words when physical affection wasn’t an option. He could use a hug himself, thanks for asking.

“You don’t even care,” Malcolm accused, his hands hiding in his pockets. “You can’t care.”

“ _You are important to me. You matter to me and so do your feelings._ ” He cared _a lot_. Thought about Malcolm time all the time. Longed to see his son, teach his boy. Show him how he could become just like dad.

“You probably should have thought of that before you killed 23 people,” Malcolm said under his breath, eyes barely peeking up from hooded lids. How dramatic of him. He was getting all the wrong lessons outside of his sphere of influence.

“That was a long time ago, son. _Life is ten percent what you experience and ninety percent how you respond to it._ ” He’d absorbed that as a young kid — surely Malcolm should’ve done the same by now.

Malcolm pulled his hands out of his pockets and gestured in time with his talking. “That’s rich coming from you.” That attitude again. He wrestled with putting his hands on his hips, but thought he’d look too much like the boy’s mother.

He kept his hands out in front of him instead, ensuring he didn’t cross the line of demarcation so he wouldn’t lose his power. “ _You will survive this. And when it’s over, I will be here and so will you._ ”

Malcolm’s hand shook at his side. His breathing sped up, his eyes bouncing around the room. Common stress reaction. Why was the hospital stressful?

“ _Smile, breathe, and go slowly_ ,” he coaxed. He was already as close to the line as he could be. If he could only reach a little bit further —

“I can’t do this today.” Malcolm released a rushing breath and turned away from him.

“ _It’s ok. You’re not alone in this_.” Talk him down from the panic. His son needed a gentle approach sometimes.

“No, it’s not.” Malcolm banged against the door, his shoulders heaving up and down.

“ _Everyone gets scared, but you need to **choose** to be brave,_“ his voice got a bit louder, a little more insistent that he needed to stay. _Stay_.

Malcolm whipped around, his eyes blazing. “ _You_ don’t get to tell me that.”

The door opened and Malcolm slipped out, only his back visible as he strode down the hall.

Twenty-two years, and he still couldn’t get his son to stay in the hospital.

* * *

Martin was…down. He hadn’t seen his son in seven days. Twice every ten, twice every ten — didn’t that boy know how to count?

Or was he gaming that the two days could be at opposite ends of the spectrum — day one and day ten.

Sounded like his son.

Maybe there was a way to give that forgetful brain of his a _come on, boy_ to wake him up and point him in the right direction.

One could only dream. Today was supposed to be the day, apparently. He'd wait and see.

An aide appeared through the door, saying, “Martin, it’s ten-thirty, you know — “

“ _WOW! You're bloody amazing!!_ “ he cackled, acerbic humor healthily intact. No one else thought he was funny, but he found himself sharp as a tack.

Mr. David gave him a look that told him he wouldn’t get Malcolm time when he got back if he kept up the attitude. So he changed his tune a bit, turning on the charm for the aide. “ _If you are 1% as nice in real life as you are here, you’d be a wonderful person to spend time with,_ ” he said and offered a smile. He knew exactly how far the corners of his mouth needed to upturn, precisely how much eye crinkle to add to get the expected reaction.

“Let’s go take a walk,” the aide directed.

Martin followed along, not like he had much choice other than to go to group therapy. Too many people droning on about _problems_ that made him roll his eyes from pole to pole, yet they did come with puppet strings. “ _You make me a happy bot,_ “ he joked, the schedule they had him on plenty mechanical.

“You can talk about that in group.” Another one not amused. Didn’t anyone around the hospital have a sense of humor?

“ _You are awesome!_ “ he spouted an overly saccharine cheer that shared just how much he thought of the aide.

“That’s enough, Martin.” Yep, scold him. Just what string would he need to pull to get a proper reaction…

“ _If I wasn’t a bot, I’d be all over you right now,_ ” he mouthed mockingly, yet kept the sound to himself.

“What was that?” Their walk stopped before they got to the group therapy room.

“Looking forward to session time.” He smiled when all he wanted to do was roll his eyes and fast-forward the hours until he could see his son.

He was in a hospital — he should have been in charge by now.

Instead…ugh, he didn’t even want to think about it. Twelve years to become a doctor, and now, most times, they wouldn’t respect his title.

* * *

Martin sat down at his lunch table, the last action required before Mr. David could let his special visitor inside. Malcolm walked in and sat across from him, looking equally tired as the last time. He sighed, not even saying hello.

“ _You're really something special._ Tend to lose the calendar when it comes to dear old dad,“ Martin scolded for the delay between visits.

Another sigh. Didn’t his son know it didn’t become him? “It’s been a long week.” His eyes stayed away, so he was unable to catch them.

“ _You lost your way, not your worth._ “ Maybe he felt guilty for the delay. They didn’t need to get lost there — this was a _visit!_

“Can we just have lunch and not make this…weird?” Him — weird? Did his son think that little of him?

“ _You’re one smart cookie._ ” Martin waved for their food, and Mr. David brought it to the two of them. Digging in with his spork, in between bites, he commented, “ _You’re someone’s reason to smile_ , my boy. Could cheer up a little.”

“We just closed a case — “ Then _why_ was he so sad? The _dramatics_.

“ _You should be proud of yourself. On a scale from 1 to 10, you’re an 11._ ” More like 1000 in a gleaming golden chalice, but he’d tone it down not to scare him away.

Malcolm looked at his plate, spork pushing around his food, none of it making it to his mouth. “That’s…nice of you, but — “

“ _You're a gift to those around you. You’re one of a kind,_ “ he spoke and mimed with his spork in between bites.

“What do you want?” There was that stern gaze judging him. Must have gotten that from his mother too. Couldn’t he compliment his son without his motives being questioned?

“Nothing.” His son to stay. To look some semblance of happy. To look less like he was _dying_ from his very presence. “I just want you to know _I appreciate you_.”

“Right. You say that, and then something else comes out.” The spork through the mashed potatoes, drawing a slash to carve out his anger. Surely that knife work could be put to better use…

He tapped the front of Malcolm’s tray with his spork. “ _Something will grow from all you are going through. And it will be you._ ” At Mr. David’s glare, he pulled his spork back. Didn’t want Malcolm time to end too early.

“Yeah — I’m a man now, and I don’t have to sit through this manipulative…” Malcolm bit his tongue and pushed away from the table, swiftly moving toward the exit.

“Malcolm, _Malcolm_ — come on now. _You are strong. You inspire **me**._” He had to keep him in the room a few more minutes — the visit had just started.

Malcolm halted his exit and spun toward him. “Excuse me?”

“ _You're a talented person!_ Our chats teach me — “

“What? Ways to be more Machiavellian? Didn’t get enough when I was a kid, so you have to keep trying now?” There was that brat again. If he could only get him to stay long enough to talk some sense in him. Seemed hopeless most days.

He let his anger flash, frustrated he couldn’t get his way. “ _You always know how to find that silver lining_ , huh?” he said sarcastically, ire curling his lips. “ _At your absolute best, you still won’t be good enough for the wrong person. At your worst, you’ll still be worth it to the right person._ ”

“You make me my worst,” Malcolm seethed, practically foaming at the mouth.

“Somehow, I doubt that. You do enough on your own. _You bring out the best in other people,_ but you can’t do shit for yourself,” he barked, twisting the spork in the air when he didn’t have a knife to do the job.

“Goodbye, Dr. Whitly,” Malcolm ground out and banged on the door for Mr. David.

Damn boy failed him again. He grumpily shoveled in his lunch, plotting what he’d do differently the next time to make him less of a flight risk.

* * *

Martin got up and headed to bathroom time, the best part of his day when he couldn’t see his son. He looked at himself in the mirror, a lovely countenance, and said, “ _You’re even more beautiful on the inside than you are on the outside_.”

He ran his hand through his hair, trying to get it to an impressive version of tamed curls. “ _Keep going, it'll be worth it in the end!_ “

Taking a deep breath, he evaluated each aspect of his finished look. Tested out his smile, his laugh, his most villainous glares. “ _You are amazing. You are important. You are special. You are unique. You are kind. You are precious. You are loved._ ”

It was a collection of daily affirmation cards he’d burn in a pinch, but it sure helped to boost his ego. Couldn’t let it get out of shape in the hospital.

He locked eyes with himself, firmly reminding, “ _Be strong enough and patient enough to wait for what you deserve._ ”

Whenever that day would come, he’d be ready to seize the opportunity.

Perhaps his boy would be ready by then.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
